Ferris Stannum dabbed his forehead before answering. “I haven’t got it, Tait.”
The usurer considered the two of them with a long, measured stare. “You disappoint me again, Stannum.” He looked about for a place to set his portfolio. Not finding one, he untied its binding and balanced the folder on his raised knee until he found the paper he wanted. He removed it and held it in front of Stannum’s face. “At the bottom of this list of loans is your signature and a date of February, the twelfth day, in the year 1543. It is now the twelfth day of the month of August, in the said year—the year in which we now live.” Tait showed the paper to Bianca for her perusal, then whipped it away. “I had your assurance a month ago, Stannum. You said you were on the cusp of greatness.”
“Greatness is delayed and so am I,” said Stannum in a soft voice.
“How so?” Tait’s manner was brusque but not callous.
“I have achieved that which I sought. But there is one last assurance I must take before I can announce my discovery.”
“That being?” Tait struggled to control his dwindling patience. His small eyes bored into the doddering alchemist.
“A colleague must verify my findings.”
“Pray tell, how long will that take?”
Stannum shrugged and blotted his neck. All the excitement had tired him. “Not long,” he said. “Once the results are found reliable, I shall be making more profit than I will know what to do with. And then I shall pay you back in full, Tait, including interest.”
The usurer glanced at Bianca. “Are you the one to verify these findings?” he asked condescendingly.
“Nay, sir, I am here to learn.”
The macaw, which had been mostly silent, let loose an ear-piercing screech.
Startled, Tait spied the magnificent bird perched on its roost. “I would have hoped, Ferris,” he said, walking over to it, “that my funding would go to your experiments—not wildlife.” He bent his head to make eye contact with the creature. “I’ve never seen such a creature. Certainly not one with such flamboyant plumage.” He reached out to touch the bird.
“He bites, Tait.”
The usurer quickly withdrew his hand and stepped back.
“My dear,” said Ferris Stannum, looking apologetically at Bianca. “Come back tomorrow if you wish. The day is late and I have much to finish.”
Bianca hesitated, feeling protective of her gentle mentor. She felt as though she should stay and defend him against the cross lender. But Stannum nudged her toward the door, reassuring her.
“Tait shall soon leave. Do not worry yourself with my troubles. They shall soon be in the past.”
CHAPTER 4
Thomas Plumbum should have known better than to take his meal at the ordinary within spitting distance of the Crooked Cork. He had wrongly assumed Jack Blade and his rascals had moved their game south of Knightrider Street. Rumors circulated that a younger man, more nimble and clever, had found the district to his liking. His cozening crew had driven out the old rakehell and Thomas Plumbum dined in the belief that he would never cross paths with Jack Blade again. He could easily avoid the area where Blade now presumably worked. But he would be sorely mistaken.
He had his fill of peas porridge with its bits of brown bone that he spat upon the floor. Its blandness could not be improved with the addition of salt, which he always carried on his person. With enough turbid beer to make him truculent, he rose from the board and squeezed past tables, crunching enough bone underfoot to make him wonder if an entire carcass had been tossed in the day’s stew. He was surly enough not to notice that he was being watched as he moved to the door.
Plumbum had been in a foul mood long before his meal. His disappointment with the fare heightened his irritation. He had sat shoveling stew in his mouth and ruminating over his friend’s obstinacy at sending his alchemy journal to some currish Moor across the sea. How could he be such a fool? Ferris Stannum was no longer blessed with youth. It could take weeks to verify his findings. It could take months. Plumbum had slammed the tankard of beer on the board before him. “Years!” he had exclaimed, to no one in particular.
If Barnabas Hughes and that girl hadn’t been milling about he could have easily convinced Stannum to let him take the journal. He could have run the necessary projection in half the time of anyone else. After all, hadn’t he been the king’s most favored alchemist? He frowned, remembering that the honor had been years ago and excruciatingly short-lived.
At least he still possessed a license to practice the noble art.
He turned onto Maidenhead and passed St. Margaret Moses, wondering when the bells would toll the time. It was getting darker sooner, an unfortunate reminder that autumn and the dreary months of winter lay ahead.
Thomas Plumbum returned his thoughts to the injustice he had once incurred, mulling it over, bringing its sting and humiliation freshly to mind. He had lost his stipend when another, more promising, alchemist caught the king’s fancy. Hadn’t the same situation happened to the girl’s father? What was his name? Plumbum scowled, trying to remember. Oh, how could he forget? Albern Goddard. Papist reveler and presumed poisoner.
Well, at least he had not stooped that far.
Thomas sniffed at this inconstant king’s whims. What number wife was he on? He snorted at his private joke. Aye, indeed what wife did he lay his bloated, petulant self upon now? Catherine Parr? Well, no matter to him. It took a woman made of stronger stuff than he to submit to being docked by that scary beast.
Plumbum thought about Ferris Stannum’s journal. Had he really discovered the elixir of immortality? He wished he had been able to look over the recipe.
Part of Plumbum’s desire came from his painful inability to dazzle the court with anything of merit. He’d performed his buffoonery one too many times, and his last attempt had gotten him a chorus of unrestrained jeers from the entire court and a boot out the door. How was he to know another alchemist had shown the king how the trick was done? He would get even with that scalawag someday, indeed he would. He would make the usurper sorry he ever stepped foot in an alchemy room.
But if Plumbum were honest—which he allowed on rare occasions—he would admit that he had run out of tricks. “There, I’ve admitted it,” he said, looking up at the heavens dotted with stars. He tripped over the sad corpse of a dog, then circled back to kick it out of the way. He, Thomas Plumbum, once esteemed alchemist to the king, had run out of ideas.
As he clumped along Carter Lane in the direction of St. Paul’s, he decided to pay one last visit to Ferris Stannum and see if he could convince the old man of his folly. He hoped with all his being that Stannum had not yet sent the journal on its voyage across the sea. At the very least Plumbum hoped Stannum might entrust him to deliver the journal to the courier. If he did, Thomas could delay the delivery long enough to sneak a look.
All was not lost. Thomas Plumbum brightened and a little hop found a way into his step. Didn’t Ferris Stannum love him like a son? Thomas smelled redemption in the air. He would have a new trick to show the king. He thrilled at the thought. And it wasn’t even a trick.
After all, who better to reap the reward of years spent in selfless devotion than he? He had promoted the noble art, had worshiped it, had championed its sublime and worthy pursuit. Ferris Stannum had always said one must have the right destiny to pursue the stone. And though he might be remiss, Thomas Plumbum believed he had earned that destiny.
As is often the case when a man’s worries subside, ideas came flooding in. Thomas Plumbum stopped walking while one particular thought rushed over him. It had to do with changing silver into gold and it required a measure of piss obtained from a youth. A fresh start on a new projection was just what he needed. His optimism convinced him he would succeed. He glanced around for a young boy, but none were about. Was that movement farther down the lane? A dog barked and a door slammed. Probably some cuffin returning home for the night, which he should be doing, but first he had to procure some piss and visit Ferris Stannum.
Imagining the sight got the attention of his own member, and he rearranged his codpiece to give it a little room. He reached into his doublet and dumped out the salt in his stoppered jar. It would not be difficult to fill it with the requisite golden pee.
Approaching one of the waifs might take some tact. As he turned onto the churchyard he concluded he should find a boy on the perimeter. The orphans operated with their own social code, and often there were one or two boys ostracized from the rest for whatever reason. Plumbum stopped shy of the hulking cathedral and scanned its length.
At the opposite end, Plumbum spied a number of boys playing cards. A small lantern illuminated their youthful faces in the gathered circle. Cheats had to learn somewhere, and where better to practice their cozenage than in the shadow of St. Paul’s? As he watched the boys hunkered round and listened to their boisterous gibes, he turned his sights to a few boys propped against the cathedral’s stone wall. They slept, snatching what patchy relief they could find in dreams away from their nightmare existence during the day. He could remember doing the same.
Glancing about, Thomas Plumbum approached a dozing urchin apart from the others. He stood before him and nudged the boy’s foot with his boot. The boy startled and looked up.
“I’ve a penny for your piss,” said Plumbum, deciding that the best approach was simply the truth. He held the coin between his thumb and finger so the Queen Moon could smile upon it.
The boy scowled and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He looked around and saw he was alone, apart from the boys farther down. It was a queer request, and maybe the old bugger meant something else altogether. Either way, he needed the money. The boy shrugged and got to his feet, noting the dagger tucked in the man’s belt.
He followed the man along the wall of St. Paul’s to its darkest corner. He could barely make out the man’s silhouette as it folded into the inky black.
“Here,” said Thomas Plumbum, shoving a small jar at the boy. “Take your relief in this.”
The boy took the jar. “Ye want me to take a leak in it?”
“That’s right. The penny for your effort.”
The boy could make out the man’s eager eyes glinting in the dim light. Again he shrugged, turning away to do his business but keeping the man in his sight. He pulled out his wanger, tickled it to get the stream flowing. He gave over to the relief that comes with emptying one’s bladder and filled the jar to the brim, spilling some on his fingers. He handed it over his shoulder, sprinkling the last drops on the cobblestones at his feet.
The man took the jar, and the boy heard him sigh as he took his turn spraying St. Paul. Well, thought the boy, that was the strangest penny he’d ever earned. He started to tuck his young member into his pants when he felt a helping hand.
“Now, boy,” said the man, his breath hot on his ear. “Let me feel what you’ve got.” And he stroked the boy’s pizzle.
The boy jabbed an elbow at the man’s ribs but struck air instead and was slammed forward against the cathedral. The man’s ragged breathing blew down the back of his neck and he was warned not to shout, for a blade would cut the words from his throat if he bothered. Another strike sent him against the wall again, smashing the lad’s nose against the stone, convincing him of the man’s sincerity.
He felt his pants yanked, and they pooled at his ankles, exposing his tender cheeks to the horrors of a monstrous sin.
The searing pain and blood filling his mouth were nothing compared to the pain of corruption that filled his body and soul. His fingers dug into the stone of St. Paul’s as he wished the man done. Wished God would smite the bugger dead and cut off his wally.
The boy almost got his wish.
Thomas Plumbum was in the throes of pleasure when he was tackled from behind, seemingly out of nowhere. The weight of his attacker pulled Plumbum off his feet, and he toppled to the ground. A pain from his head hitting the cobbles coursed down his spine. He had barely registered the sting when he was sprung upon by a man who insisted on choking him. His eyes bulged from the pressure and he tried pushing the attacker off. Without air and the strength that came with it, Thomas Plumbum flailed to no use.
He saw only a glimpse of the man’s face.
Jack Blade was back.
The man’s visage disappeared behind a sea of red, blinding Thomas from a final look. It was just as well. He wouldn’t want to see the beating that followed.
“You foul blasphemer,” said Jack Blade. He released his grip on Thomas Plumbum’s throat and stood, looking down at where Plumbum lay coughing. “Your blood runs black with unnatural desire. Can you not find a whore who would take you?” He kicked Plumbum in the bollocks. “Or are you too niggardly to pay?” As Plumbum curled into a ball like a pill bug, Blade pummeled his exposed back side, concentrating on a kidney.
Meanwhile, the boy skittered away, far enough to take some pleasure in the man’s beating while keeping a safe distance.
Thomas Plumbum coughed blood upon the cobbles. There he lay, gasping for air, his arms crossed, holding his ribs. It was a desperate situation, being unable to breathe, much less fight. Surely Blade’s leg must be getting tired from kicking him. He fought to remain conscious as he wallowed in blood and spit, the hard ground the pillow beneath his cheek. Eventually, the battering ceased. The only sound was his coughing. He vomited.
“Get up, you vile traitor. I should save the executioner the trouble and hang you myself.”
Plumbum slowly got to his knees, every muscle screaming, and was promptly booted in the rear, returning him face first onto the cobbles.
“I’ve not forgotten the debt you owe. And let this be a reminder that I always collect my due.” Blade paused for Plumbum to stagger to his feet but grew restless waiting. He hauled Plumbum up by the collar of his dismal yellow doublet, waited for the alchemist to focus on him, and spat in his face. “Now I know your filthy heart.” He pushed Thomas away in disgust. The force of it sent Plumbum sprawling backward.
If that were not enough trouncing, Blade took one last pleasure in humiliating the alchemist.
Thomas Plumbum was gifted all the piss he ever wanted.
CHAPTER 5
If all men slept soundly, think on what tranquility their souls might enjoy. But this night, one restless soul could not sleep and sought peace through other means.
Those looking for ill-gotten gains benefit from stifling summer heat combined with the dark of night. Denizens with the luxury of windows open them wide, hoping for a breeze to find their beds. Others worry their open door might invite thieves or even rapists, and while some gamble they might be spared such crimes for a decent night’s rest, others are not so complacent and lock their doors and windows. Ferris Stannum, the alchemist, was of the trusting kind.
What could befall a man who had discovered the secret to immortality? He alone had been granted that destiny. Most alchemists espoused their virtues and single-minded purpose trying to convince God (as well as themselves) that they deserved success. But Ferris Stannum had been blessed beyond all others.
Hope filled a puffer’s heart but not his purse. Alchemists spent money that should have bought food for their families. They squandered their last coin; they squandered their future in a desperate pursuit to project the stone. Ferris Stannum smiled in his sleep. Yes, he, too, had squandered, but soon he would recoup every loss he had ever incurred.
All but one.
Though he was hopeful he might turn that around.
His mind was soothed by the knowledge that he had been blessed with a great destiny. However, there was one who crept into Ferris Stannum’s rent who did not think about matters of destiny.
Stannum turned over on his pallet
and faced the wall, the damp plaster spotted with mildew. Soon he might live where the sun could find him as he worked to make vial after vial of elixir. His journal of alchemy sufficed as a pillow, providing some comfort for his mind, but not particularly so for his head. His ear pressed hard against its cover. Still, exhaustion pulled him under, and in his repose, he kicked off a thin sheet. Even that was too much weight this hot night.
The black tiger returned from its nocturnal prowling carrying a limp shrew in its mouth. A dog alerted the entire neighborhood of its arrival and successful hunt. This proved a noisy and unnecessary announcement, requiring the feline to deftly skirt the dog’s snapping jaws. Relaxing upon entry to its master’s home, the cat found a suitable place to dismember the creature and set about doing so. Shrews were delectable except for their long, bony snouts.
Ferris Stannum began to snore, and his steady breathing filled the rent.
When he rustled, the footsteps stopped. When he settled, the footsteps started.
The cat abandoned its shrew.
All was at peace until a most unnatural sound disturbed the red parrot and set it squawking.
Across the river, Bianca and John left the door and their one window open. What little breeze they enjoyed was suffused with the smell of chicken manure from across the way. John thrashed, pulling a sheet over his nose to filter the awful stink. This lasted half a minute, until he grew too warm and threw it off.
Beside him, Bianca slept soundly. She was bothered by neither the smells nor the oppressive heat. Her dreams were soft, filled with visions of herbs and flowers, the combinations stoking her subconscious with ideas for remedies she would pursue later, when she woke.
John propped himself on one elbow and stared at her—willing her to wake and hear his complaints. But she turned away from him, a serene smile on her lips.
Restless, John sat on the side of the bed. He twisted his hair into a bun and stabbed it in place with a metal stirring rod from Bianca’s wares. The room had not cooled. No breeze found their door. He went to open it wider, catching sight of the crescent moon hanging in the sky like a silver hook. Even the trill of a nightingale did not soothe his foul temper. John leaned against the jamb. They had been married for a few months now, and still he had not convinced Bianca to move. Nor had he convinced her to take his surname. She would rather stay a Goddard than be called a Grunt. Though, John had to admit, Grunt was an appalling last name.
Death of an Alchemist Page 5
